Echoes Of The Past
by Tarma Hartley
Summary: From out of tragedy, a familiar face appears out of the shadows of the past and back into the life of the newly widowed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It was a face that had, many years earlier, broken his heart... and it was a face that he never stopped loving. Alternate Universe, Mystrade
1. Prologue: From Out Of Tragedy

_A/N: I do not own Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sergeant Sally Donovan or Anderson; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Rupert Graves, Mark Gatiss, Vinette Robinson and Jonathan Aris. The plot and Police Constable Yates, Emily Lestrade, Tara Lestrade and other characters who show up briefly, however, are mine. :)_

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_From out of tragedy, a familiar face appears out of the shadows of the past and back into the life of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, a face that had, many years earlier, broken his heart... and a face that he never stopped loving..._

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My second Mystrade fic! :) An Alternate Universe/tragedy/slice of life/hurt/comfort fic that will be a complicated piece of writing jumping forth between the present and the past. It will be interesting, to say the least, so I hope that I do a good job and manage to do the proper transitions at the proper time. I'll be using the same method that SoWrightSoWrong used with her PxE fic, _Shadows Passing, _with the present in regular text, the past in italics. It's basically a 'boy meets boy in the past, they fall in love but circumstances separate them, one boy moves on, marries and has a family while the other does not, although they never forget about each other, they don't see each other for years and, when tragedy strikes, boys meet again' story.

Hope you enjoy! :)

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her AWESOME beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

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_September 21st, 2003  
New Scotland Yard  
10 A.M._

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade cursed softly as he sprinted across the parking lot, his grey trench-coat flying about his legs like broken wings as he raced into the building, dodging an outstretched arm as he flew under an officer's arm and muttering apologies as he ducked into the elevator. He leaned against the wall in order to catch his breath, looking at his watch and cursing again.

_Damn it, I'm late!_ His mouth twisted into a sour grimace as he watched the lit numbers slowly going by as the elevator continued its upward trek, tapping his foot impatiently. _Of all the times that Emmie_ had _to be difficult, this morning was_ not _a good time!_

He looked up at the passing floors, scowling when it stopped every now and again to pick up people that were waiting patiently outside the doors; he acknowledged greetings to some who worked either with him or on his floor with a lifted hand. _God, the Carson case is beginning to heat up and the Lawson case seems stalled right now although it might help if Anderson got the ball rolling! That's something else that I need to do at some point: to talk to Molly and get the forensics report back on the Simpson case; she _should_ have it completed by now!_

It had not been a good morning thus far. Emily, affectionately known as Emmie, his six months pregnant wife, had put her foot down and insisted that he eat a good breakfast, like it or not and refused to listen to him when he told her that he needed to get to work or he'd be late. After he'd left home, traffic was jammed for over an hour and he'd had to take a detour when one of the bridges was closed for repairs.

He'd heard that there had been an explosion after he entered New Scotland Yard-late, he ruefully admitted, because his wife had made certain that he'd eaten before he left-and now, that he was here and sprinting down the hall to his office, he wondered why it had gotten so quiet all of a sudden when it was normally a frenetic hubbub of activity that often spilled into the hallways.

He also wondered at the cause of the uneasy and pitying glances that he saw dispersed in the various people standing there like statues in a garden which was something else his sharp eyes picked up on immediately. He also wondered_ why_ some members of his team were trying to disuade him from going to the crime scene and what exactly the reasons for it were.

_Something's up. They've never acted like this before on a case... at least not like this._

It was indeed curious since the vast majority of people that worked closely under him had never, that he could recall, acted like this and it was clear to him that something was amiss. They refused to meet his gaze when he questioned them directly and noticed the uneasy glances that were passing between them.

He hadn't slept well the night before-there was something about a case that was troubling him-and his temper wasn't as stable as he would have liked; the surreptitious glances they were giving him as he raced into the Yard were really starting to annoy him. When he'd stepped into his office with the team following behind, he put his foot down, literally and figuratively, insisting that they tell him what the hell was going on and to quit acting like guilty schoolchildren.

A stunned and uneasy silence reigned for some time before Police Constable Hannah Yates, a new addition to Scotland Yard since September last, stepped hesitantly forward, her hands twining together and writhing like a nest of snakes. He noted that, while she was the nervous sort generally, that today she was even more restless than she normally was and waited for her to speak.

"Sir," she began hesitantly, looking toward Sally Donovan who stood off a little to the right, tense and silent, "there's-well... been..." She stopped, swallowed and then continued. "There's been an... _accident_..." Her voice trailed off again into an uncomfortable, strained silence.

_All _this_... over a bloody _accident_?! Of all days, today is _not_ the day to have to deal with something else! I have enough to deal with as it is!  
_

Lestrade closed his eyes and counted to twenty before he spoke. Twice. When he at last opened his eyes after some time had passed, he looked frostily at each and every face that had turned his way, and even a few that weren't. When he spoke, it was with a tinge of ice.

"There's been an _accident_? Is that _why_ you're all standing here like a bunch of guilty fools, whispering among yourselves?" He was annoyed and he let it show. "I expect _more_ professionalism from my team members and I bloody well demand honesty, as well, as_ you_ should know, P.C. Yates!"

He threw the file he carried in his hand on top of his desk that sounded like a rifle shot when it landed and Yates flinched, her brow furrowing as he turned his angry glare directly on her. "Now, I'll ask you one more time just _what_ the bloody hell is going on here and _why_ you're all doing your level best to avoid answering my question!"

Yates threw an inquiring look at Sgt. Donovan who nodded once, a grim look on her face. Lestrade felt a cold chill of fear wash over him at the look that passed between the two women although he did his level best not to show it outwardly. It wasn't really all that difficult since he really was angry.

There was something in that gaze that struck him to the heart which made the current situation he was facing at home that much worse. His wife of six years, Emily, was pregnant again and this time was proving to be very difficult for her; she'd already had one close call three months earlier and Lestrade couldn't help but to worry about her. He didn't want to have that occur again and she'd been ordered, by her physician, to complete bed rest. Dr. Greene, their regular physician who had known both Lestrade and Emily since they were children, had even admonished Lestrade to make sure that '_damnably stubborn hoyden_ does _it'_ which, as he well knew, she _wouldn't_.

He loved her but simply couldn't understand _why_ she refused to take the physician's advice, particularly since he knew that she was having trouble carrying this baby. That had been the source of countless arguments between them as of late and, coupled with the stress that he was feeling at work over the Lawson and Cameron murder cases, had driven him from their home to the pub more often than not which was another thing that he felt guilty about.

He'd remembered the latest flight from home a couple of days ago as he stood there, staring at Donovan and Yates; he'd commiserated with the bartender about the numerous ways that women drove menfolk crazy and, when he took a long draught from his pint, he couldn't help wishing that she would take the doctor's admonitions to heart. Contrary to her belief, the doctor _wasn't_ out to get her by any stretch of the imagination or even being beastly just for the sake of being beastly; he was _genuinely_ concerned for her welfare and had expressed this very clearly to Lestrade on more than one occasion over the past four months.

He had the notion that she probably felt, in his flights from home, that he was deserting her in her time of need although, bless her heart, she never said so. Given the stress he was under with this case and worrying about his _very_ stubborn wife, he couldn't help feeling that he had failed her both by not being there for her _and_ supporting her.

Emily was Emily, however and in the end he'd given up trying to convince her since she refused to take the doctor's advice anyway, going about her daily life much the same as she always had. If he was exasperated with his wife for this reason, he was genuinely enchanted by their four year old daughter, Tara. He smiled as he thought of her.

An even tempered child, she, like her mother, was blonde haired, green eyed with a small spate of freckles over her nose which only added to her charm rather than taking away from it. She was also a very active little girl and could be quite a handful when her temper flared or was up in arms about something but, generally, she was a very good, and precociously intelligent, little girl.

All of this was brought back to him in the look that passed between P.C. Yates and Sally Donovan and he knew, in an instant, that the news, whatever it was, _wasn't_ good.

His legs felt like rubber, threatening to to give out underneath him, a chill washing over him; both Yates and Donovan were at his side in an instant and helped him to his desk, Donovan pulling out the chair and then helping Yates settle him into it.

Yates put her hand on his shoulder, her face full of sympathy while his mind whirled in incomprehensible circles. He _knew_ that look and he also _knew_ that it didn't bode well; it was the same expression on any officer's face when they had tragic news to impart.

"We wanted to spare you, Sir," she said quietly. "Despite how it may have appeared to you,"-her eyes flickered over to Sgt. Donovan briefly and back- "we _weren't_ trying to be deliberately cagey or dishonest. We just... _didn't_ want you to be alone when you heard that..."

"Heard... _what_?" he asked hoarsely, his hands shaking.

Yates bit her lip, looking very uncomfortable. This was one aspect of her job that she really hated.

"There was an... explosion at 333 Drury Lane, Sir." She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "There... there were... _casualties_..."

Lestrade's eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing but no sound emerged and it took an act of will just to keep breathing.

_333 Drury Lane is... Oh, dear God... it's_ my _house!_

Lestrade's face went white as the full implications of what P.C. Yates had just said sank in fully. There had been an explosion at _his_ home and there were _casualties_...

"Casualties..." He closed his eyes for a moment, counting to ten slowly twice before he opened them again. "How many... were there?" His voice sounded hopeful, praying that one of his family might have been spared. His hands were beginning to shake again and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to try to keep them still although he could feel slight tremors.

P.C. Yates hesitated before she answered, taking a deep breath. "Two, Sir... actually," Yates corrected herself, swallowing hard, "three if you count the unborn child..."

"Oh... _God_...!" A moan of sorrow escaped from his tightly compressed lips before he had a chance to stop it and he pitched forward onto his desk, his hands cradling his head. He dimly heard the shouts in the background behind him as the fact that his family was dead became too horribly real.

_Emily... oh god... Tara!_

The tears came, flowing down his cheeks in a steady stream as his heart broke within him. Emily and Tara were dead... killed in an explosion at their home.

"_When_?" The question was pulled unwillingly from him, his voice rough with unshed tears.

"Sir?"

"_When_... did it... _happen_?"

"Nine forty-five this morning, Sir," Yates replied quietly and Lestrade couldn't suppress another sorrowful moan that rose from his throat, a stab of guilt piercing his heart. Where had he been at that time? Stuck in traffic, his finger tapping the steering wheel impatiently. What had he been doing? Railing against his wife in his mind and blaming her for his being so late among a plethora of other unpleasant thoughts while, unbeknownst to him, he was a widower.

He leaned forward, cradling his head on his crossed arms and wept.


	2. Chapter 1: A Familiar Face

_A/N: I do not own Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Anderson, Molly Hooper or Sally Donovan; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Rupert Graves, Jonathan Aris, Louise Brealey and Vinette Robinson, respectively. However, the plot and P.C. Yates are mine. :)  
_

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_Newly widowed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is investigating on the explosion that killed his wife, daughter and unborn child. He is startled to see a familiar face, one that he hasn't seen in sixteen years.  
_

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Chapter 1! :)

I know that there is a Drury Lane in London, England and my Drury Lane does not resemble the real one except in name. I'm using the name simply because I like it and not placing the story in where it really exists but outside of it. In this story, Lestrade's home is on the outskirts of London and not directly in it.

Hope you enjoy! :)

**Thanks** to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

**Thank you** to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her **AWESOME** beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

**Special thanks** to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

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_September 21st, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
10:45 A.M._

He didn't remember how he got to his former home and swallowed hard when confronted by the full horror of what he had been told. He noted, in one portion of his mind that was still able to reason with some degree of clarity, that what he had been told in no way compared to what he was seeing spread out in front of him: Broken glass littered the lawn, mingling with the burnt remnants of what had once been kitchen items, ruined furniture scattered everywhere by the explosion that had ripped the place apart.

Two bodies lay silently on the front lawn and he deliberately tried not to look in that direction as he knew who they were... and that he had lost all three of his loved ones: Emily, Tara and their unborn child.

He couldn't bear to look at them... and felt someone's hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the curb in front of where his house once stood and was now no more than a heap of smoking rubble where he sat down, tears streaming from his eyes as he lowered his head into his hands.

_I'm so sorry,_ he thought despondently, _I'm so sorry I wasn't there..._

He sat there for a long time while the lawn hummed with activity. He lifted his head and, through tear stained eyes, thought he saw a familiar face standing five feet away from him, within the heart of the milling crowd of police, C.S.I.'s and people from the Coroner's Office. His eyes widened as he saw that familiar grin, the regal tilt of the head, the arching of eyebrows, that ginger hair, the umbrella he held in his hand, that familiar pose...

_Dear God..._ He rubbed his eyes hard, willing them to clear. His heart started to beat faster as he watched the mysterious figure. _That couldn't be..._ him... _could it?_

He shook his head hard and, when he looked over again, he was gone. It was almost as if he'd been a dream, disappearing like smoke in the wind once he woke and it brought back a plethora of feelings that he hadn't been aware that he'd had all these years and hadn't thought about in as long.

He remembered those halcyon days, a fresh wave of recriminations breaking within him. He'd failed his wife, he'd failed his daughter and he'd failed_ him_, the three people who meant everything to him.

He lost himself in memories, doing his level best not to break down. For now, it was enough.

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_11:30 A.M._

Lestrade walked slowly around the ruined circumference of what had once been his home, his heart aching as he surveyed the wreckage. He had come at once when he'd heard the news from Sgt. Donovan and, the moment he stepped out of the police cruiser, he had to look away for a few moments in order to get himself under some kind of conscious control.

It was worse than he could have ever imagined and he had to steel himself in order to begin the familiar walk down the sidewalk; he could see the ruins of the wishing well that had once stood in the front yard, now burned and blackened, grey and white chips flaking together and drifting silently to the debris-littered ground, scattered by a chill wind that had suddenly blown up.

Lestrade shivered, pulling the corners of his grey trench-coat collar together, swallowing hard, the lump in his throat so large that it threatened to choke him. His thoughts traveled back to the discussion he and Emily had had before he'd left for work earlier that morning, his eyes being drawn to where the kitchen window once was and he remembered what had happened earlier this morning...

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_Earlier that morning...  
8 A.M._

_"Good morning, poppet," Lestrade said as he passed by his daughter, who was seated at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of her favourite cereal and planted a soft kiss on the top of her blonde head._

_She grinned as she looked up, the corners of her mouth a light blue colour as she reached up and pulled his head down to her level, planting a wet kiss on his cheek, smiling impishly. He smiled at her briefly before he turned to face his wife who stood at the stove, cooking a panful of scrambled eggs._

_"Mmm," he murmured softly, his arms resting lightly on her hips, pulling her forward and planting a kiss tenderly on her lips which she warmly returned, "that smells wonderful."_

_She wrinkled her nose playfully at him. "It will be ready soon so go sit at the table and I'll bring it over to you."_

_He shook his head, reaching around her to snatch a piece of buttered toast that lay on the counter beside the stove, taking a large bite._

_"Sorry, darling," he said, chewing quickly and swallowing, "but I'm already running late so I won't have time to -"_

_She didn't reply but gave him that look and he swallowed hard before he made his way to the table and sat down. There was no dealing with her when she gave him that look and he knew it. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw his daughter grin and heard the soft, smothered snicker that she was trying to hide._

_He gave her a severe look and that made her laugh outright. His face softened as she did so, her green eyes sparkling with undisguised mischief._

_"I don't need any lip from you, young lady," Lestrade said with mock severity while Tara giggled, "I get enough of that from your mother.""Go on with you, Gregory," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she set a full plate on the table in front of him and winking at her daughter, "you eat up now. You can't go to work on an empty stomach."_

_"What would I do without you, Em?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice as he picked up his fork and dug in, relishing each and every delicious bite._

_"Starve," she replied primly and both Lestrade and Tara laughed before they went back to their respective breakfasts under Emily's watchful, and maternal, eye..._

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_Emily..._

"...Sir?" a worried voice broke through his reverie and he jumped slightly, startled at the intrusion that had broken so violently into his thoughts, giving his head a slight shake.

P.C. Yates looked at him uncertainly, her brow creasing with worry. ""Are you all right, Sir?" she asked again, her voice thick with concern.

He nodded quickly, swallowing over the lump that he could feel forming in his throat. "Yes," he replied, hating himself for the lie, raking his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm... _fine_, Yates, thank you."

She didn't look convinced but, to his relief, she dropped the subject and he moved on across the lawn and up to the ruined front door that was lying at an awkward angle on the sidewalk ten feet from the house.

He didn't see Yates start to make her way over to him nor did he see Donovan shake her head hard, sending her a warning glance to let him be, that he needed his space to work things out in his own way and wouldn't appreciate being coddled. She plainly wasn't happy about that but concurred with Donovan, nodding curtly as she stopped, pivoted on her heel and started walking over to the ambulance.

He fought down the sorrow that rose in him; if ever there was a time that he needed to think clearly and bot under an emotional strain, this was it.

_Don't think... don't feel... concentrate on the job... Don't think... don't feel... concentrate on the job._ This mantra had served him well over the years-he doubted that he could have dealt with everything that he had seen over his career if he hadn't-and he exercised it to the limit at the present. He couldn't bear to look again on the bloodied sheets that covered the broken bodies of his wife and child and did his best to avoid looking in that direction.

_Focus on the job; look for clues to explain why this tragedy happened and never mind that the victims are your own wife and child._ He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. _Mourn later; for now, we have work to do._

_Don't Think. Don't Feel. Concentrate On The Job._ Lestrade had never felt more like a hypocrite than he did now. He'd often given the newer members of New Scotland Yard this same advice when they had to deliver news of a loved one's death, be it from accident, murder or other cause; it wasn't a pleasant job by any stretch of the imagination and he could recall how many of them had come to him, troubled and heart sore. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, he found it to be the most useless phrase that held no comfort at all... and did nothing to quell the pain in his heart at the loss of his family.

_Don't Think. _

_Don't Feel._

_Concentrate On The Job._

God, how he hated it.

He made his way down what remained of the sidewalk and toward the taped off section of the ruined house, biting his lip hard and clenched his hands into fists as he stepped over the threshold.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_September 22nd, 2003  
333 Drury Lane  
London  
1 A.M._

He'd worked without stopping for hours, trying to drive away every possible thought of where he was and what he was working on. He wasn't exactly certain at what point he had collapsed and that Yates, calmly but firmly, with the backing of Sally Donovan, made him take a break sometime around eleven o'clock. He protested but was unable to override either Donovan or Yates and, as he made his way sulkily to the curb and plunked himself down, his fingers twining on top of his bent knees, he cursed under his breath again.

_Remind me never to get on the bad side of either of those damnable women,_ he thought irritably although with a touch of admiration for their tenacity, _they must be taking lessons in cheek from my wife._ He knew that they meant well but it still nettled him to be ordered about like a naughty schoolboy; after all, _he_ was _their_ boss and not the other way around!

After some time, the anger began top drain slowly away and, once it was gone reality came crashing down in on him with a vengeance. He cringed noticeably as excruciating pain stabbed him in the heart and tears pricked the corners of his eyes but he didn't have the strength to lift his hand to wipe them away and just sat there, stunned and in agonizing pain, as the tears flowed freely down his face.

It was pitch black when at last he was aware of the world again and it startled him when he realized that he was now alone, the eerie stillness that surrounded him deafening.

He wiped his eyes, rubbing them hard in an effort to clear them. His nose felt like it was the size of an apple and he wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been sitting here while the world went on around him. For a moment, he was angry. He'd just lost his family, his home and his life a few hours earlier and it seemed that no one cared.

He knew it was base of him but he really didn't care all that much; he was in unbelievable pain and there was no one there to comfort him. He wished that Donovan was at least here but he didn't even have that small comfort. He'd never felt so alone in his life.

He wasn't even sure that who he had thought he had seen in the crowd earlier had even been there to begin with. Perhaps it was just a trick of the mind; perhaps it was an unspoken wish, or simply just wishful thinking. He didn't know and it troubled him.

He was exhausted and didn't even have the energy to rail against fate any longer or even to move. He could feel fresh tears welling up in his eyes and this surprised him; he'd shed so many over the course of the day since he'd heard the news that he was certain that he didn't have any left and this fresh wave brought back the sorrow all _too_ keenly.

He leaned forward, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he fought to stop the deluge that threatened to overwhelm him with despair. He felt so lost that he was having trouble trying to think of what his next move should or would be; he was in so much pain that that was all that really registered in his mind right now.

A polite cough from his right brought him back into reality with a jolt and his head whipped up, his hands falling away from his face as an angry barrage of words leaped to his lips and he prepared to let them loose when he got a good look at who it was that was standing there beside him...

The words died in his throat, his shocked eyes widening, his mouth working but no sound emerging. He lifted a shaky hand that was tenderly caught as Mycroft Holmes sat down beside him, bringing it to his lips and kissing it gently, pressing it against his cheek.

"My...My...Myc..." he croaked when at last his mouth could work again, flushing when a stuttering croak was all that he could manage. His throat hurt like hell and he still had trouble focusing. It felt like a surreal dream but it was real... as real as that solid arm that surrounded him and that solid hand that held his trembling one so tenderly. "What...why...?" He stopped.

"_Emily_... _Tara_..." he began again but his voice caught and he couldn't say anything more. Mycroft took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his fingers tightening around his shoulder.

"I know. I heard... what happened." Mycroft's voice was imbued with sorrow, holding Lestrade close as he rocked from side to side in misery, loud, keening wails being ripped from deep within him. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Gregory, truly I am..."

Lestrade shook as barely concealed sobs bubbled up from deep within him and he surrendered as Mycroft put his free arm around him, giving him the shoulder that he needed so badly, holding him until he could pull himself together. He rested his head against Lestrade's, crooning soft words of comfort.

Through his tears and loud, racking sobs, he thought he heard Mycroft whispering, "It's all right Gregory; I'm here. I'll stay here by your side." Silence, a tender kiss planted on the top of his head and a whispered pledge: "I won't leave you again, I promise..."-a slight hesitation- "..._beloved_..."


End file.
